


Nunc Scio Quid Sit Amor

by lovefrom221bboys



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Angst, Fluff, I'm Bad At Tagging, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M, Master/Slave, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:09:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2065944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovefrom221bboys/pseuds/lovefrom221bboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Now I Know What Love Is'<br/>John is a slave in ancient Rome, one day Sherlock lets his eye fall on him and their whole lives change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spem Reduxit ~ He Has Restored Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cadie](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cadie), [damesandhorses](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=damesandhorses).



> This is my gift for Cadie, tumblr user damesandhorses for the Johnlock gift exchange. She asked for John and Sherlock to come together over something angsty, so I hope this is what she meant. It was harder than I'd expected, so sorry if it's not a masterpiece, but I did my best. :) I hope you like it, Cadie! Enjoy!

The sun stood high in the blue sky, burning the world beneath in an uncomfortable heat. It seemed to be intent on making the horrible situation John was in, even worse.

The sweat trickled down his forehead and spine, his throat was bone-dry and a massive headache had come up because of the unyielding sun. He felt like he could faint any instant.

He smiled bitterly at the thought that the whole marketplace would be in an uproar when he would faint, for he would take the whole line of slaves he was tied to, down with him. 

The ropes cut in his wrists and ankles, John tried to keep them as still as possible as soon as he'd noticed a small trail of blood on his left wrist.

He swallowed, a difficult task when your throat was like a desert. 

He despised every single Roman citizen on the marketplace, checking people like him as if they were animals or objects. Nothing more than a luxurious toy. He despised how they laughed at them, mocking the ones who were famished and dehydrated, he despised how they deemed themselves above them, thinking they were favoured by the gods. And above all, John despised how they drank wine and stood under sunshades without even thinking how unbearable the heat was for them and how torturing the sight was. 

He shot a scornful look at his master, who'd put him here and who was enjoying a drink in the shadow. John was glad to be freed from this brute on one hand, but who knows, maybe he was going to end up with a man who was even more inhumane. The whiplashes had been bad already, but John knew there were worse things some masters did with their slaves.

So he looked as hateful as possible at every Roman who passed him or even looked at him. He was lucky to not look as strong as he actually was. John tried to train and practise to fight as much as he could when he had some spare time, he knew fighting skills could become convenient at one point, so he liked to be prepared.

His strategy had worked thus far. Only one or two times, a Roman man had wanted to really check him, making him stand out of line and feeling the muscles in his arms and legs, but luckily, there had been more suitable slaves.  
But John knew it wasn't so smart to be so obstinate. If he wasn't sold soon, the master would probably just murder him to be rid of him. To be honest, though, John didn't really care. It was probably better than the life he had now.

John sighed and his eyes wandered to the sky above him and the birds that were flying through it as if nothing could restrain them. 

And then, John's eyes caught a new figure who entered the marketplace. With his raven black curls, pale skin, heavenly blue eyes and sharp cheekbones, he didn't look Roman at all. But at the same time, he seemed to be the only embodiment Rome could ever have.

He looked like one of the gods themselves.

He moved elegantly over the square and all the people made place for him, he didn't even glance at them. His unearthly and calculating eyes shifted quickly from one slave to the next, observing them, judging them, rejecting them.

Then those pale eyes found John. He looked him up and down. Did his eyes linger longer on him than on the other slaves, or did John just imagine it? Was that a small smile playing around his lips for a second?

John just glared at him with as much contempt as he could gather, but the man just stared back, seemingly not noticing John's attempt to put him off, or just ignoring it.

There was something different about the way the man examined him from afar. He didn't look as if he was watching some animal, checking if it would do for the zoo in his garden or if it would match the furniture, he seemed to really _see_ John. Observing him with fascination, leaving no place undiscovered and John found it difficult to keep glaring at him.

A strange feeling came up in John's gut when the man looked at him like that, a feeling that said that if anyone had to buy him, he wanted it to be this man.  
John was startled by this sudden thought, he hastily pushed it away.

He hadn't been aware he was holding his breath until the stranger looked away. He exhaled shakily, trying to compose himself again.

Why had this man such an effect on him? What was so unsettling about him? And why wasn't it entirely unpleasant? John quickly blamed the heat and the long standing and continued with sternly staring ahead.

A couple of minutes later the master suddenly stood in front of him, untying the ropes that bound him to the others, his wrists and ankles though, were still tied together.

"Don't ruin this chance, _bestiolae_ , or otherwise I'll break your neck," the master hissed, looking dangerously at John. John didn't flinch, just stared back, unaffected. His master pulled him out of the line, his hand squeezed John's arm painfully hard. 

He wasn't completely surprised to see the tall black-haired man again, but it made him feel uncomfortable and he didn't know why. 

John was determined to not let it show. He planted his feet firmly on the ground and set his jaw. He casted a quick unimpressed glance at the man and then stared at a point in the distance again. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see an amused smile flicker over the stranger's face. It confused John even more.

The master began to babble about John's capacities and usefulness and John snorted at the praises that now seemed to roll so easily out of the master's mouth.

The man took a step closer, his eyes quickly shifted to John's mouth at the sound he'd made.

John wished he would go away soon, ignoring the contradictory feeling in his gut.

The rich man made a vague gesture with his hand and the master faltered and took a step back, then the stranger took a moment to just stare at John. His eyes travelled him up and down, not skipping one inch of skin. John felt like the man was taking him apart with his eyes, unravelling him. He ignored the urge to hide and wished he wore a bit more than his loincloth.

After what seemed like minutes, but probably had just been seconds, the Roman placed his fingers on John's arm. His grip was firm and gentle at the same time and John studied his face while the curly stranger had directed his undivided attention on John's arm. 

John could see now his eyes weren't entirely blue. It was difficult to say which colour they actually were, but blue alone definitely didn't describe them, he could see a hint of green and grey too.

His eyes shifted quickly to the long, elegant fingers on his arm when they squeezed experimentally, their pale colour sharp in contrast with his own tanned skin from the work on the fields. A jolt of electricity seemed to go through John, but he concentrated on being as relaxed as possible so the man wouldn't feel his strong muscles too much.

The man, however, shot him a sceptic glance. His fingers travelled farther, feeling his strong shoulders.

John followed his movements with his eyes, and saw how there seemed to be a million thoughts and conclusions in the man's head, but he couldn't make out a single one of them.

Why did he so desperately want to know what this stranger was thinking?  
The man was behind him suddenly, and his strong, experienced hands studied his back, from his neck over his spine to the small of his back. John stood as still as possible, trying to fool himself he didn't enjoy the man's attention and touches, almost like caresses.

Was it only a thought, or did the fingers of this man really linger longer and softer than was appropriate for examining a slave?

And then the man was before him again, John's breath caught when he felt those fingers on his stomach, examining the muscles there, and he tightened them unconsciously at the cold touch on his overheated skin. 

The man smiled approvingly, casting a quick glance in John's eyes. John just stared back, surprised and bewildered. The man brushed his fingers over John's belly for a moment longer and then stepped back, turning to John's master.

They negotiated in low voices. John could see the master mumbling, all subservience and politeness, nodding at all the things the stranger said. The tall man handed him a jingling pouch and John wondered how many coins it contained. It was the proof that a human life really _was_ measurable in money. How much was he worth?

His new master casted him a last glance, his eyes seemed to be filled with excitement. 

The only thing John could do now was hope for the best. And try to get rid of that twisted and confusing feeling of happiness that filled his limbs and head.

***

The villa was immense.

John's jaw dropped as soon as he caught sight of the building, looming over him in all its grace. It radiated wealth and prosperity. John wondered what the man did exactly for a living.

A guard led him through the gigantic atrium to the quarters of the slaves next to the colonnaded garden. John couldn't tear his eyes away from the decorations, the colourful fresco's on the walls, the complicated, yet elegant patterns of mosaic on the floor and the powerful, marble sculptures which seemed to come to live when he passed. John felt hopelessly misplaced in this opulence, it overwhelmed him like a tidal wave and left him a bit dizzy.

The garden was as impressive as the rest of the house. Exotic plants John had never seen before grew freely, though not chaotic, on the ground and around the statues. Vines entwined the columns and the rattling sound of water in a fountain filled the heavy air.

It reminded John of his thirst.

He would do anything for a sip of water. Just splashing some water on his face sounded like heaven, but he was already grateful for the cool shadow of the house, enveloping him like a blanket and refrigerating his overheated skin.  
When the guard stalked off again, John found himself in a small, stark room. The furniture consisted of a bed in the corner and a table with two chairs against the opposite wall. Late afternoon light seeped in through a little window, bathing the room in a golden glow. John felt quite content in his new, small living space, he finally had the luxury of a decent bed and a little privacy. The penetrating smell of too many people packed in too small a space still stung his nostrils and he inhaled deeply to fill his lungs with fresh air.

He took another good look around and discovered a trunk under the bed with a couple of clothes. When he'd put on one of the tunics, he heard a soft cough behind him. Surprised, he turned around and saw an old woman standing in the doorway. She had soft and friendly features, her face wrinkled when she smiled at him and happy lights danced in her eyes.

"Good afternoon, dear, you must be the new one," she said calmly and John couldn't do anything but return her warm smile when he nodded. She looked him up and down for a moment and John could see approval and understanding dawn in her eyes, although he didn't understand why. "Now I see why Sherlock is darting around like a happy puppy."

It took John a moment to realise she was talking about the dark-haired man. Sherlock. His name was as peculiar as the man himself, but John rather liked the sound of it. 

It took him another moment to process what she'd just said.  
"He is?" he asked, confused, momentarily forgetting all manners and politeness. It seemed like the only thing the man had done to John so far was confusing him. 

"Oh yes, I haven't seen him this happy in ages. Can I come in, dear?" Though she didn't wait for John's answer and had already entered the room, John nodded.

"Of course, take a seat, Mrs..."

"Hudson," she continued for him as she lowered herself on a chair, John sat down on the other one. "I was Sherlock's governess when he was little and now, I still look a bit after him, to make sure he eats enough, he's so skinny." She smiled at a distant memory in her head. John shifted in his chair, it was like she was talking about someone else than the man John had seen on the marketplace. John found it difficult to imagine someone as human as Mrs Hudson looking after such an unearthly appearance as Sherlock. He'd seemed so mysterious to John. A burning curiosity overpowered him suddenly.

"So what does he do exactly? Is he in politics?" He tried to sound as nonchalant as possible, but he couldn't quite disguise his eagerness to learn more about the man. He didn't even try to fool himself anymore and just gave in to the fascination that had hit him as soon as he'd seen Sherlock.

"I wouldn't say he's in politics, really." She worried her lip when she reflected it. "He is, though, in a way, I guess. But only because he's a _legatus_. That's the only thing that matters to him. Always the work." 

John processed this new information. It didn't completely surprise him that he was an officer of such a high rank, -why would his villa otherwise be this ridiculously large?- but it impressed John nonetheless. He'd always secretly dreamed to fight in the wars, but when his tribe had been attacked and he'd become a slave, he knew his ambitions were hopeless. It didn't stop him from training when he had the time, though. 

"Speaking of which, what work does he want me to do?" John asked to prevent himself from questioning her more about Sherlock.

"You're going to work in the kitchens and keep the house in good condition. You'll be one of his personal slaves, too, so you'll have to be at his disposal immediately when he asks for you."

John felt something flutter in his stomach, but quickly shoved it away. A part of him was still afraid Sherlock wasn't as different from others as his mind liked to imagine. The woman who sat opposite of him, though, who was so calm and happy, made hope flare in his veins. 

"How rude of me! I haven't asked your name yet."

"Quintus," John said without flinching. He didn't like other people to know his real name, even if they were as friendly as Mrs Hudson.

"What a lovely name," she complimented him, oblivious for the lie, "So, Quintus, you'll be very happy to hear that Sherlock, no, I mean the master -sorry it's an old habit- works with _peculium_."

John couldn't believe his ears. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming. Maybe he fainted on the marketplace because of the heat after all, and was this just an illusion his mind tortured him with. He pinched his arm subtly under the table to make sure he was awake and pinched again when he felt the pain, but wanted to be absolutely sure. 

When a master worked with _peculium_ it meant he rewarded his slaves with a little amount of money every now and then, it was a much better stimulator than the punishments some fools like his former master used. And when a slave had saved enough money, he could buy himself free.

This was too good to be true.

He smiled disbelievingly at Mrs Hudson and her eyes were filled with joy. The wrinkles at her eyes deepened when she laughed and a thought flew into John's head.

"I'm sorry if it sounds rude, but I'm sure you have earned a lot of _peculii_ throughout the years, so how come you are still here?" John asked, watching her closely.

"I could never leave, Quintus," she said softly, her voice was full of sincere fondness. It rendered John quiet. "He's like a son to me, and besides, I have nowhere else to go. What would an old lady as I do in that modern outside world? I would be lost." A giggle escaped her mouth and John smiled, his sympathy for this woman growing a little more. 

She stood up from her chair and made for the door. "Follow me, dear, I'll show you around."

John followed her with renewed hope in his heart.

***

A week passed, silently, unnoticed.

John already fitted in seamlessly, he'd adapted quickly to his new tasks and environment. He enjoyed working in the garden between his shifts in the kitchens, the warmth of the sun caressing his skin while he pulled the weeds out or pruned the bushes. Beautiful melodies from far away birds filled his ears and calmed his mind. 

He'd been extremely grateful for the calming effect of the garden after his first encounter and conversation with Sherlock on the third day.  
There had been a visitor that day.

John stood against a wall, he held himself as still as possible so it seemed like he was part of the room himself. He had an amphora of wine in his hands and waited until the master's or the visitor's glass was almost empty to come out of his dark corner and refill their decorated glasses silently with the rich, red liquid. 

The guest was a middle-aged man with grey hair and friendly, brown eyes. John thought he'd heard the master call him Lestrade. 

John could easily overhear the conversation without even having to disguise it too hard. Maybe Sherlock could have caught him staring and listening too intently for a slave with his eagle eye, but John doubted he would mention it or make a remark. 

And besides, Sherlock seemed to be engaged in other, more important affairs than John's eavesdropping.

He was a small storm, pacing up and down the room. His robes whirled around him like a tornado, his dark curls were a wild, dark cloud when he ruffled through them and his eyes were made of blazing lightning. All those elements made him look even more elegant. Even in this chaotic state.

Lestrade sat at the table, following Sherlock with his eyes, his expression told John he'd seen this a thousand times before.

"It couldn't be the cousin, Lestrade. How many times do I have to repeat myself?" Sherlock let out a sigh of pure exasperation when he came to a stop, turning around to face Lestrade, who was just sipping his wine. "It must be so relaxing in your head, your brain doesn't do anything. Oh, don't look at me like that. It couldn't be the cousin, he's left-handed! You can see from the angle the body was pierced that it was obviously a right-handed person who did it. The depth of the wound doesn't match the strength of the cousin either. Therefore, it is the wife. She did a good job wiping out the evidence, though, but her body betrays her, always rubbing her nose, covering her mouth, scratching her neck, it's clear as day she's lying. I'm sure she has the weapon under the false bottom of her jewellery case by her alarmed looks she sends it every five seconds."

John blinked away his surprise. The angle the body was pierced? Sherlock could really tell which hand someone had used by the angle? John was stunned more by the fact that Sherlock could know all these things, than the fact that the two men were discussing a murder. 

Sherlock stood there for a moment, watching Lestrade closely.

Lestrade seemed not as impressed as John, but simply nodded and stood up. He bowed his head curtly before striding off.

"Finally," Sherlock sighed, falling down in his chair. He steepled his fingers under his chin and stared at nothing in particular.

"Amazing," John breathed out without realising it.

Sherlock jolted in his chair, his hands grabbed the armrests, he'd completely forgotten there was someone else in the room. His eyes quickly found the source of the sound. 

John wanted to apologise, but something in Sherlock's eyes refrained him. There wasn't the anger or irritation one might expect when a slave was talking without permission. Instead, there was this strange surprise. Astonishment, really. With a hint of insecurity.

"You think so?" Sherlock asked after a while, eyeing him disbelievingly.   
"Extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary," John nodded. He didn't dare meeting Sherlock's eye.

"That's not what people normally say." John looked up now, but Sherlock's face was turned away.

"What do people normally say?" John asked, "sir," he quickly continued.  
Sherlock turned his head, the corners of his mouth were turned up in an amused, though faintly bitter, smile. "Piss off."

John let out a laugh at the sudden answer and Sherlock's smile broadened at the sound.

"What's your name?" Sherlock asked at length. The smile wasn't completely disappeared from his mouth yet. His eyes looked at him with renewed fascination.

"Quintus, sir, for I am the fifth son of my family."

It was obvious Sherlock didn't buy it and could see through the lie as if it was clear water. He didn't say anything, though, just stared at John for a while, making it clear he didn't believe him.

John cleared his throat. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, sir, but was that a murder you just solved?" He couldn't quite hide his fascination.  
Sherlock nodded and made a vague gesture with his hand, taking his glass and making the wine swirl. 

"Yes, life can be exceptionally dull when there's no war going on. It's the only thing that can keep my mind from exploding," Sherlock said, his eyes were fixed on the liquid in the glass.

John was silent for a moment, thinking back at Sherlock's conversation with Lestrade. 

"How did you know, though?" John wondered aloud.

Sherlock's eyes settled on him. "I didn't know, I observed. I paid a visit at the crime scene, it's not hard to see those things, but ordinary people can be so annoyingly oblivious." Sherlock's eyes looked straight into John's, holding his gaze. "I can identify a potter by his left thumb and a teacher by his brooch."

It struck John how Sherlock talked about other people like he wasn't one of them, like he was another species entirely. 

"Brilliant." The word escaped John before he could stop it.

Sherlock seemed as taken aback as the first time John had complimented him.   
"You know you do that aloud?"

"I'm sorry, I'll stop," John said quickly, a bit embarrassed. 

"No," Sherlock said immediately. "No, it's, ehm, it's fine," he continued more nonchalantly this time.

When he'd been excused, John had run off to the gardens. It was strange how interacting with Sherlock came so naturally to him. It was like there was some weird bond between them, and they hadn't even spoken to each other before. Maybe he was just seeing things, or maybe Sherlock just had that effect on people and everyone felt like that around him. 

John didn't really believe the latter, though. First of all because of Sherlock's 'piss off'-reaction and secondly because he was quite certain he'd heard another slave -he guessed her name was Sally- call him a freak.  
He'd worked a long time in the garden that night, waiting for his mind to stop spinning.

Today, on the seventh day, John couldn't quite find the peace he needed. He was restless and fidgeted all day. His body was a tense string on the verge of snapping. His hands were shaking and he had absolutely no idea where the agitated feeling came from. 

Nothing he did over day worked to calm him, so he decided to go to the woods next to the property when night had fallen so he could train. He felt like he needed the extra physical exercise. The prospect calmed his mind a little, though not much.

John waited for the sun to disappear completely behind the horizon. He forced himself to wait some more until the last sounds in the house had died down. He quickly kneeled before the altar he'd made himself and mumbled a prayer to the gods. He put on the cloak he'd found in the trunk, left his room and the house silently behind him and took off into the night.

One half of the moon shone down on him, covering the dark world in a layer of silver and white, and the stars shimmered in all their brightness at the sky.   
The forest was farther from the house then he'd expected, but he picked up his pace and soon reached the edge of the woods. The trees loomed over him, silent guards in the nocturnal world around him. 

John walked yet further, but not as far that he wouldn't find his way back again. He could feel how his mind and body had fallen in a heavenly peaceful state due to the long walk and quick pace he'd held. He could already feel how the cool air of the forest made him feel like he was reborn. 

He searched a long branch and a sharp stone. He cut all the side-branches and twigs off and began sharpening one end of the strong branch that was left. The scraping sound of stone against wood mingled with the nightly noises of the forest and John found himself being pulled in some kind of peaceful trance. The world around him disappeared completely.

When he decided the point was sharp enough, he used the stone to carve a target in a thick tree. 

John began simple. Just throwing the javelin at the target before moving on to more complex moves. He'd had a knife, but he'd lost it when he was sold. He couldn't have hidden it in his loincloth, obviously, so he had been forced to leave it behind. 

He fell in some kind of rhythm, throwing the javelin as hard as he could, walking to the target, pulling the javelin out and walking back. Then repeating it from a bit farther off.

A loud crack ripped through the silence. 

John spun around, pulling the javelin out of the trunk while doing so. He didn't see anything unusual, but didn't dare to belief his eyes. A crack in the wood was nothing bizarre, but it had been too loud to be made by an innocent, little animal. 

John sneaked forward, cautiously planting one foot before the other. He could feel the adrenaline rushing through him. It sharpened his senses, kept his breath icy calm, his movements controlled.

He raised the javelin over his shoulder, ready to pierce through anything that came out of the bushes. 

The silence around him was sharp, tense. John approached the bushes the sound had come from, catlike. When he was close enough, he inhaled deeply and pushed the bushes away in one quick motion with his one hand, his other hand gripped the javelin harder, ready to strike. 

Nothing.

There was nothing hidden in the bushes or behind. John just stared a moment at the empty spot before him, then he let his eyes scan the area around, a nagging feeling in his gut made him suspicious. 

The alarming feeling didn't quiet down until several silent, long minutes had passed and John continued his exercises. He never let his guard down, though, he listened intently to the small changes in the air, picked up every movement in the sky and on the ground.

But nothing happened.


	2. Ad Astra ~ To The Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Attack me." Sherlock's deep voice brought John back to reality, away from the incredible sword in his hand._

The next day John felt as if he could handle the whole world.

His body was recharged and full of fresh energy. He was whistling on his way to the kitchens and told himself he really had to go training at night more often. He felt better than he had in a long, long time. 

His good mood tempered somewhat when he noticed how Sherlock's eyes followed him everywhere. 

From the moment he'd stepped into the dining area with the dishes and an amphora, he felt how those unearthly eyes settled on him, following his every movement. At first, John tried to ignore it, but when it became clear Sherlock wasn't about to stop, he felt an uncomfortable feeling creeping up his spine. 

The most frustrating part was that John couldn't make anything from Sherlock's expression. He hadn't the faintest idea as to why Sherlock was acting so strange, he used to just ignore John and the other slaves most of the time.

John felt like he could jump right out of his skin by the end of lunch, like he was on the verge of exploding, demanding an explanation from Sherlock. He could restrain himself, though, albeit with much difficulty. 

His knuckles had an unhealthy white colour from holding the amphora a little too tightly and his jaw ached from clenching his teeth as to lock the words up in his mouth. 

Sherlock stood up at last, downing the last of his wine, and send them away with a wave of his hand.

When John started for the door, though, he could feel Sherlock's gaze piercing his back.

"Quintus, can you stay a minute?" Sherlock's deep voice when he said his -false- name sent a warm shiver down John's spine.

John turned around and met Sherlock's intense gaze. He tried to be as relaxed as possible, but his voice still sounded strange to his own ears when he answered: "Yes, sir?" 

Sherlock looked him up and down quickly, when his eyes found John's again, John saw they were shimmering like a thousand stars. A faint, almost non-existent smile made the corners of his cupid bow shaped lips turn upwards. 

"Grab your cloak, we're leaving to the woods in five minutes," he said at last, sending a quick wink to John before leaving the room. 

John watched him go, glued to the spot. His mind was blank, couldn't process what just happened. Then something dawned on him. A short chuckle escaped him when he realised it. He shot into action to get his cloak and follow this madman into the woods.

***

No words were exchanged along the way. 

Sherlock had pushed a bundle in John's arms and took off. A smile appeared on John's face when he felt the obvious content, his presumption had been correct after all.

John struggled at first with the high pace Sherlock held -he had those damn long legs contrary to John's- but he quickly adjusted.

The sun had just passed its highest place in the sky and began its descent. 

They walked through extensive meadows and fields. John hadn't been able to note the beautiful surroundings last night, but now he could see them in all their glory; the wheat danced silently on the slow music of the wind, a small lake in the distance shimmered as a tapestry of diamonds and the sky was the clearest blue John had ever seen in his life. It reminded him of Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock didn't slow down to look around and didn't even halt before entering the forest. He seemed oblivious for the beauty surrounding him because he'd known nothing else.

"Where are we actually going, sir?" John asked, unable to resist it any longer.

"We're almost there," Sherlock said absent-mindedly.

After a few more minutes, Sherlock stopped. They'd reached the top of a hill where the trees stood further from each other than in the rest of the forest. 

Sherlock looked up at the sky. Golden light that seeped through the roof of leaves dotted his outstretched throat, his chin, his lips, his nose, his cheekbones, his hair. A magical play of light on his pale skin. Suddenly, the wheat, the sky and even the lake didn't seem so breath-taking anymore. John couldn't tear his eyes away from Sherlock. He was enchanted by the sight of him. 

And that's why John completely missed what Sherlock said.

He only figured out he must've said something because Sherlock's head suddenly snapped back and he stared in expectation at John. 

"The bundle, Quintus," he clarified when John didn't respond.

John's body remembered how to function again, and he hastily gave the bundle of cloths to Sherlock, mumbling an apology under his breath. He could feel his cheeks burn.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice, but began unwrapping the cloths.

"So it was you," John said when Sherlock lifted up four swords, two real swords and two made out of wood.

"Obviously," Sherlock answered, studying the sword he was weighing in his hand. 

"Why didn't you say anything?" John knew he was ignoring a lot of unwritten rules, but he really didn't care at the moment.

Sherlock looked at him, an amused almost-smile around his mouth and dangerous flickers in his eyes. 

"What's the fun in that?" he simply said and he threw one of the swords at John.

John caught the sword mid-air and silently thanked his reflexes. He gripped it tightly in his left hand. He liked to feel the cold metal on his skin, the weight in his hand, it send a strange calming feeling through his veins. But at the same time he could feel the adrenaline and thrill of the fighting sizzle in his nerves. His fingers tingled and gripped the hilt tighter. 

It really was a beautiful sword. Finished to perfection. It was clear this was the best sword John would ever hold in his hand for the rest of his life.

Sherlock observed him closely. A silent statue in the green world of the forest, streaked with gold. 

"Attack me." Sherlock's deep voice brought John back to reality, away from the incredible sword in his hand.

"What?" 

"You heard me, I hate to repeat myself when I'm completely clear." Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"I'm not going to attack you, sir," John said with a nervous laugh. What the hell was Sherlock doing?

"Fine," Sherlock sighed. 

Sherlock charged John and thrust his sword forward with incredible speed. John just had the time to turn away from the sharp point, but almost lost his balance while doing so.

Sherlock, though, was as light-footed as a cat. He spun around quickly and attacked again. His sword glimmered in the sun. John parried the blow with his own sword and was amazed by the strength Sherlock could produce, slender as he was. 

John was able to ward off some more blows of Sherlock's sword, sometimes ducking away, sometimes using his own sword. He even tried to attack, but Sherlock parried him like he was waving away an annoying bug. 

Not long after, John's sword flew out of his hand and the point of Sherlock's sword was pressed against his throat. 

"Not bad," Sherlock said, lowering his sword. John rolled his eyes, an irritated feeling had nestled itself in his stomach.

"It was horrible," he grumbled. Sherlock's mouth turned up in an amused smile.

"Fancy a retry?" Sherlock asked as if he didn't knew the answer already.

"Yes, sir." John was determined to last longer this time, he'd already given up the hope to win, but he was going to make it difficult for Sherlock.

"Sherlock." Sherlock reached one of the wooden swords out to John. 

John's head snapped up. He saw something vulnerable in the fickle colour of Sherlock's eyes.

He took the wooden sword and couldn't keep the smile from invading his face.

Sherlock didn't give him much time to enjoy his happiness, though, he quickly charged again and John was suddenly snapped back in concentration. 

John sharpened his senses. He used his eyes to pick up every change in Sherlock's muscles and posture, never letting his eyes fall from the sword that seemed part of Sherlock's body. He used his ears to hear the small changes in the air or their footsteps on the ground. The unnerving feeling had been replaced by a deadly tranquillity. His mind was absorbed by the fight, by their movements.

Sherlock didn't seem to have much difficulties, but he seemed more concentrated then the previous time.

John lasted longer indeed, but was hit in his stomach eventually. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. 

"Again," he said through gritted teeth and gripped his sword tighter in his hand.

Sherlock just smiled dangerously and attacked again. 

John came back more fiercely this time, giving more strength to his blows, reacting faster, taking advantage of distractions. 

The only problem was that Sherlock wasn't easily distracted. He was unbelievably focused. It was inhumane. His body seemed to dance more than fight, every move was elegant, precise, deadly. The sword was an extension of his arm, it wasn't clear were Sherlock's arm stopped and the sword began. Everything flowed into each other seamlessly. And yet, Sherlock was able to put an extraordinary power behind every action. 

It was impossible to defeat this fighting machine.

John tried nonetheless, only determination kept him going, made him stronger.

When Sherlock's sword hit his side, he waited a while to catch his breath. 

This time, he didn't wait for Sherlock to attack first. 

Their fight was quicker now. The blows followed each other up in a fast rhythm. They were more adjusted to each other, beginning to know the other's weaknesses and strengths.

John knew Sherlock had probably figured John's out in their first fight already, but Sherlock was being easy on him.

Although even he began to pant now, too. 

It filled John with satisfaction, it made him more confident to go on. 

Maybe a bit too confident, because the next thing he knew, he was hitting the ground hard.

Sherlock crawled on top of him, straddling his belly. John felt the wood against his skin when Sherlock pressed the length of his sword against his throat. 

Only the sound of their heavy breathing filled the air. John now felt the sweat running down his brow and neck. A few drops decorated Sherlock's forehead like little pearls. 

They didn't move. Enchanted by adrenaline and their closeness. 

Sherlock's eyes were piercing, looking right into John's soul. John couldn't catch his breath, it was impossible to breathe.

He felt a drop of Sherlock's sweat fall on his cheek when Sherlock's face inched closer. His eyelids were half closed as his gaze travelled over John's face. He lingered at his lips. 

Their noses almost touched. John could feel Sherlock's breath on his lips and dark curls caressing his forehead. He grabbed his sword tighter with his one hand and the earth with his other to keep them from burying themselves in Sherlock's hair or touching his cheek. His whole body was trembling slightly, almost unnoticeable, with want. He looked at Sherlock's lips. They looked so soft. Then, their eyes met and John wanted Sherlock so badly. He wanted to take him apart. He wanted him to not be so concentrated and composed anymore. He wanted to be the reason Sherlock lost control, to fall to pieces in his arms so he could put him together again.

The force of his longing, scared him. It grasped him out of the spell of the intimacy between them.

When Sherlock dipped down even closer, bridging the final inches between their lips, John took advantage of his distraction. 

He swung his leg and replaced their centre of gravity so they rolled over. John loomed over Sherlock now, he quickly straightened so he wasn't awkwardly lying between Sherlock's legs anymore, and put the tip of his sword against Sherlock's throat.

The expression on Sherlock's face was one of utter bewilderment. And John thought he could see confusion and disappointment flash through his eyes. It was gone before he could be certain, though. 

He smiled smugly down at Sherlock who just let out his breath in a long huff and rolled his eyes with a smile on his face.

John giggled and Sherlock began to chuckle too. Soon, they were both laughing. The adrenaline of the fighting and the almost-kiss was making their minds spin.

When their laughing fit was wearing off, John stood up and reached his hand out to Sherlock. Sherlock took it and John pulled him up. He didn't let go of the taller man's hand immediately, and stroked softly with his thumb over the soft skin before he could stop himself. He felt the unevennesses of scars under his fingertips.

Sherlock didn't say anything, but John felt a small squeeze in his hand. 

They let go.

Sherlock's gaze travelled along the rows of trees, John followed his gaze. The sun was setting, painting the skyline in orange and red. The shadows of the trees stretched and mingled with each other.

"Come, I want to show you something," Sherlock said, and before John could answer, he began to walk. When John didn't follow fast enough for him, he turned around and smiled at John. "Come on, I won't murder you, trust me."

John laughed, and picked the swords up from where they lay scattered on the ground.

"You wouldn't be able to, even if you wanted. My fighting experiences are tremendously improved over the last few hours."

Sherlock let out a laugh. It send a warm wave through John's body hearing the spontaneous sound of Sherlock's laughter. It was the most wonderful music in the world.

Sherlock waited for John to join him, and under the divine light of the setting sun, they made their way through the forest, talking and laughing, forgetting everything except each other.

***

There was only a shard left of the sun peeking out above the horizon when they reached the top of another hill. The trees had left this place untouched so the sky could loom over them unhindered and the grass was free to grow longer than in the shadows.

They sat down in the long grass, their shoulders almost touching, and watched as the sun disappeared and the night slowly wrapped the world in darkness.

"Look at the sky, Quintus," Sherlock suddenly said when the night had fallen completely.

John did as he said. His breath caught in his throat.

Above him, the sky came to life. Countless stars looked down on him, setting the black firmament alight. A curtain of jewels surrounded the two of them with in their midst, the moon. Everything bathed in the pale light of the moon and stars. The sky seemed to come from a dream.

John looked at Sherlock, only to find Sherlock already staring at him.

The outlines of his face were faintly illuminated by the silver light.

John had found Sherlock beautiful already when he'd been standing in the glow of the sun, but this was a whole new level of beauty. John couldn't find any words to describe it or what it did to him. His slender figure, strong and vulnerable, his long, pale neck, his black hair, leading its own life, his marble skin, his cutting cheekbones, his gentle lips, his soft lines and strong angles, his ever-changing eyes. John could see everything.

It made his mind silent.

"It's incredible," John breathed. They were silent for a moment, John's gaze wandered over the sloping hills, covered with trees. 

"Thank you, Sherlock," John said softly. "I don't know why you do this, but then again, I don't understand a lot of things you do." He breathed out a laugh. "You have no idea, but the only thing you do is confusing me," -he heard Sherlock's intake of breath as if he wanted to say something- "and make my life better," John continued, he swallowed. It didn't come easy to him to say such things, but he felt as if he owed it to Sherlock. "So, there. Thank you." He looked straight ahead.

"You're welcome, Quintus." Sherlock's voice was soft and sincere. 

"John," John said after a while. "My name is John Watson." Now he dared a quick glance at Sherlock. The dark-haired man's eyes were wide, and he seemed speechless. John had never thought Sherlock could be speechless. 

Then Sherlock smiled. It was an innocent and genuine smile, solely meant for John. "John," Sherlock repeated softly, almost tenderly as if his name was a little bird that didn't know yet how to fly, something he needed to take care of. It filled John with warmth. He liked the way Sherlock pronounced his name, the way his deep, velvety voice wrapped itself around his name and turned it into a sweet melody.

"I used to look at the stars every night, when I was still in my tribe," John said, looking up again. He pointed at the stars. "You see those three stars very close together?" 

Sherlock scooted closer so he could follow John's arm better. "Yes, I can see them."

"That's Orion, 'the hunter'." 

It didn't seem to ring a bell in Sherlock's head.

"You know Orion, right?" John asked. He looked with a confused expression on his face at Sherlock. It couldn't be that this man, who knew every fact under the sun, didn't know anything about the myths.

"He was a hunter of the goddess Diana," John explained when there came no answer, "She was about to marry him, but her brother, Apollo, reminded her she was the 'virgin huntress'. She wouldn't listen to him, though. And when Orion stood in the water with just his head above the surface and his back to the shore, Apollo said she couldn't hit that black thing in the sea. She obviously didn't know it was Orion, and she shot him with her bow. The waves carried him back to the shore, and when she discovered what she'd done she placed him among the stars. You really don't know this, Sherlock? Even I know this and I'm not even Roman."

"Must've deleted it," Sherlock answered simply. "Everything has a logical explanation, and myths are as implausible as anything can be. They were useless, therefore I didn't save them."

"But it's about the gods."

"Those gods are just a bunch of hot-headed psychopaths who live on a mountain, I don't know what's so appealing about them."

"But it's the base of your whole culture!" John couldn't believe Sherlock didn't know anything about it. 

"So what? Even if my culture was based on a hobbyhorse, riding through the garden, it wouldn't make any difference."

John laughed. How was Sherlock even real? Who on earth could delete something out of their mind at will? He was too incredible for words. And John loved it.

Sherlock joined him. "It doesn't mean I didn't appreciate you telling me about them, though."

They were silent for a moment, just enjoying the view and each other's company. Their shoulders were touching now and their hands lay right beside each other on the ground.

"So, John, do you really have four older brothers?" 

John chuckled. "No, I just made that up. I have an older sister, though. Well, I say 'have'..." John faltered and swallowed. "Her name was Harriet, but we always called her Harry, except my mother when she was really angry at my sister." A sad smile crossed his face when he thought about her. "And just before we were attacked, there was a huge scandal about her, because she didn't want to get married. She threatened to run away. She would have, she certainly would, but then the legions came, and it was too late."

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said softly, his voice was almost a whisper. "You don't have to-" but John couldn't stop now he'd started.

"I remember every _second_ of that day. And every new one was more horrible than the last. I was in the middle of my training to become one of the soldiers, but my tribe was small, we didn't have a big force yet. We sent somebody to ask the nearby tribes to come and help, but we couldn't defend ourselves long enough. It was-" John stopped and closed his eyes. He forced himself to breathe in and out slowly. Screams and pleas that would normally only appear in his dreams, buzzed through his head. Somewhere far away he could make out Sherlock's voice calling his name, but it was too faint. A red glow painted his closed eyelids.

"They burned everything," he whispered. He exhaled shakily. 

He didn't know what had come over him, he'd never talked about it with anyone. He'd never even let himself think about it. 

A warm, soft hand closing gently over his own hand brought him back to the present. 

"I'm so sorry," Sherlock said softly in his ear. He rested his forehead against John's temple. The calming scent of Sherlock filled his nostrils, replacing the scent of ash and fire. John leaned into the touch and held onto Sherlock's hand, letting himself be carried out of those unbearable memories by Sherlock's presence. "You're safe, John, I'm here with you."


	3. Pulvis et Umbra Sumus ~ We Are Dust and Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I've got an idea," he said in a low voice. It sounded ominous and the undertone was as clear as crystal to John:_ and you're not going to like it. __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the incredible length of this one, but I couldn't cut it or shorten it. This is where the angst begins. Enjoy!

A message reached Sherlock concerning the still ongoing war in Gaul. New territories had been gained and new camps had to be built to control and defend them.

Sherlock had to collect his army force and go to the conquered lands to help fight off Gauls.

They set off when dawn painted the edges of the world in a soft pink. John came along, too, as Sherlock's personal slave. But he felt as if he was already fighting a war in his heart. He didn't think he could bear the sight of Sherlock fighting against his own people, it would tear his heart, yet he couldn't bear staying at home either.

John tried to hide his inner struggles from Sherlock; he muted the sound of the thought, it was still a long journey after all. He'd let himself think about it when they were actually there. 

First, they had to cross _Gallia Cisalpina_ , then _Gallia Transalpina_ , and travel a little more farther northwards.

During their voyage, Sherlock took John out for practise almost every day. Sometimes before sunrise when everyone was still fast asleep, sometimes after their long marching of the day. They would seclude themselves from the others and John just forgot about everything for a while, pretending the rest of the world didn't exist; the goal of their journey, the other men, the war, even the fact that he and Sherlock weren't equals. They acted around each other like lifelong friends, everything between them just flowed like the most natural thing in the world. Sometimes they didn't even seem friends anymore; touching too much, staring a second too long than appropriate at each other, standing too close when it wasn't necessary. John was grateful for this, though, Sherlock's presence calmed his mind, made him feel secure.

John found his fingers lingering on Sherlock's marble skin when he helped the _legatus_ in his armour. His fingertips brushed the silk-soft skin in tender caresses. He loved the sound of Sherlock's sharp, hardly noticeable intake of breath when he touched the sensitive skin of his wrists or stomach. He loved the feeling of Sherlock's icy eyes on him, deducing what he'd do next. He loved the way Sherlock's body was a mystery, seemingly vulnerable and slender, but incredibly muscular and strong under John's touch. He was an elegant paradox of gentleness and power.

John tried to restrain himself, though, but sometimes he just couldn't help it. Sherlock was a magnet John couldn't avoid.

But as closer they came to their destination, the more distant John became. He smiled less, preferred to be alone more often, and did his work more erratically and business-like.

When they passed a burned off village, John closed himself off completely. He isolated himself and broke down when he was far enough from the camping place for the night. He didn't want Sherlock to see him like this.

Like the broken pieces he really was.

***

The following day, they arrived at their destination. 

The soldiers had set up their tents and pulled up wooden walls in no time. They dug a deep moat around their construction. Sticks with sharp points stuck out the moat to prevent the enemy from reaching the walls.

All this was done before sunset. It reminded John of the attack on his tribe, the oiled machine that was the Roman army, deadly efficient in everything it did.

The slaves had helped, too, though. And even though Sherlock hadn't sent John away to help, John had gone anyway. The hard work helped him warding off the dark memories that threatened to overwhelm him. Crushing him against a sharp rock over and over again like the unyielding waves of the sea. He'd put all his strength, all his focus in the digging, and he tried to ignore the knot in his chest, the feeling he was digging a grave. 

John would do anything to distract him. 

When he made his way back, exhausted and covered in dirt, he bumped into a very energetic Sherlock. 

John could almost hear the restless electricity sizzle through Sherlock's nerves. It was the war, John knew, all the tactics and possible situations, the adrenaline of the coming fights. It made Sherlock overflow with energy, but it made his incredible mind icy calm and calculating.

When Sherlock caught sight of John, however, -he'd been very distracted by something in his mind palace as he called it, apparently- his eyebrows drew together in a worried frown, and his mouth tensed. His eyes skimmed swiftly over John.

"This has to stop," was the only thing he said, more to himself than to John. He took John's hand and led him to his quarters. John focused on not letting his weary feet stumble as he followed Sherlock's long strides.

As soon as they were inside Sherlock's chambers, the tall man whirled around and held John's face in his hands. He looked at John closely, his eyes shifted from one spot to the next.

"Are you all right, John? No, don't answer that, obviously you aren't." He let go of John's face and took a small step back, his eyes didn't leave him, though. 

John fixed his eyes on a point on the opposite wall, just above Sherlock's left shoulder. He clenched his teeth. His hands were balled into fists. 

"It's okay, Sherlock, I just need a bit of time to dismiss it from my mind." He swallowed and forced himself to inhale and exhale calmly. 

Sherlock didn't believe him at all. John wondered why he'd even tried to fool Sherlock. Maybe just because he wanted to believe it himself so badly. 

Sherlock's hand cupped John's cheek and he stroked some dirt off of John's forehead. "I've got an idea," he said in a low voice. It sounded ominous and the undertone was as clear as crystal to John: _and you're not going to like it._

Deep blue eyes met celadon green ones. John could see the resoluteness in them, Sherlock wasn't going to change his mind. But hell, John would try if it was as dangerous as Sherlock made it sound like.

"I'm going to the enemy and I'm going to negotiate with them for another solution. I can't let them be and free them, then I'll lose my head, but I can make them surrender without anyone getting hurt."

John's heart stopped for a second. 

Then it sprang back in full force. Anger buzzed through him. He didn't know where it came from, but he couldn't control the white-hot fury washing over him. It was the result of too many emotions in too short a time.

"Are you out of your mind?" John didn't recognise his own voice. "You can never persuade the men to do this, and you know it." 

"I'm going alone." Sherlock didn't let John put him off. His low voice was relentless.

John had to close his eyes to keep himself from bursting out of his skin. He pinched the bridge of his nose. This was absurd. Absolutely absurd.

"Do you really think they would listen to you?" John asked in a low voice. He looked up. "What if it doesn't work? Either they kill you right there or the Emperor will execute you when he finds out. This is suicide, Sherlock!"

Sherlock didn't say anything. He stared steadily at John, he'd raised his walls around him again to ward off any emotions. 

It frustrated John even more.

"Are you even listening to yourself? You of all people should know it won't work."

"I have to try. I'm sure-"

"No, stop." John couldn't stand this anymore. "No, I'm not going to let you get yourself killed, Sherlock. I can't lose you. I just can't." 

Now he wasn't afraid to look Sherlock in the eyes. 

"I could do this, John. If it works, nobody has to die. Nobody has to go through what you've gone through. I have to do this. For you."

John swallowed. He was faintly aware of the stinging pain where his fingernails dug in his hand. 

"Don't do this Sherlock, just don't." His voice was barely above a whisper. He tried to swallow away the lump in his throat. "When you're going to fight against this tribe, I know there's a chance you'll come back. I know it's probable, because I've seen you fight and nobody would stand a chance. But if you go all by yourself, I know, I _know_ , I probably won't see you ever again." He closed his eyes again for a minute, and took a deep, though shaky breath. "I don't want to lose you, too, Sherlock, you're the best thing that has ever happened to me," he whispered when he opened his eyes again. "Please, promise me you won't go."

Sherlock had lowered his walls again. His features softened, a sad glow had appeared in his eyes. He sighed.

"Okay," he said softly. "I won't go. I promise." 

***

John awoke with a jolt. 

He didn't know how, but he knew something was wrong. Very wrong.

Icy chills slithered over his body and made his bones cold. He threw the blankets aside and quickly put on a tunic. He rushed to Sherlock's chambers, an ominous feeling settled in his chest.

Sherlock didn't lie in his bed. 

John cursed under his breath and turned around. He looked for him everywhere, he scanned all Sherlock's chambers and searched the whole camp. He asked some soldiers if they'd seen him, but usually just got a rude 'no' barked at him. 

His heart went insane in his chest and he couldn't catch enough breath. Panic crawled into his body and surged through his veins. 

"Goddammit, Sherlock," he whispered weakly as he looked around and tried to think of something to do. But the panic had reached his mind and prevented him from thinking clearly, which made him only panic more. 

"Come on, John, calm down," he told himself. He collected all his willpower, and took a few slow, deep breaths; counting slowly as he did so. 

And then, like the sun that breaks through the clouded sky after days of rain and storm, an idea popped in his head. It wasn't the best idea of the century, and could go wrong alarmingly fast, but he hadn't got the time to come up with something else.

He ran as fast as he could to the quarters of the centurions, not noticing the weird looks he gained from passing soldiers. 

The sun hadn't appeared yet at the horizon, not even a faint pink glow could be seen in the distance, so when John burst into the tent, it was completely dark around him. 

He quickly shoved away a curtain and felt an immense relief at seeing the silver head of Lestrade peeking out above the blankets. 

"Centurion Lestrade," John said, there was no time to lose.

Lestrade jolted awake, he practically jumped out of his bed.

"It's me, Quintus, _legatus_ Holmes' slave," John said quickly when Lestrade pointed a knife at him. Lestrade let out a sigh and lowered his knife.

"You shouldn't wake a centurion when there's a war going on, Quintu- Wait, what? What are you doing here?" Lestrade was still dazed from sleep.

"I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, sir, but this really is an emergency." John explained where Sherlock had gone to, speaking as fast as the speed of light. Lestrade seemed to struggle with the speed at first at this impossible hour of the day, but when he heard the urgency in John's voice, he seemed to become fully awake. 

"What the bloody hell was he thinking?" Lestrade exclaimed when John was finished. 

"That's what I thought. But I've got an idea, it's probably as insane as Sherlock's, but I don't have another option. And you've got to help me."

Lestrade considered this, but when he saw the worry and desperation in John's eyes, he knew what he had to do. 

He nodded.

A new wave of relief washed over John, though it didn't wash away the panic.

"I'm going, too. But" -he raised his finger when Lestrade opened his mouth to protest- "I'm a Gaul. I mean, I was, at least. I still know their habits and the language, I can easily sneak in without anyone noticing it and try to get Sherlock out of there." The ' _if it isn't already too late_ ' hung heavily in the air between them. 

Lestrade sucked in his breath. 

"That's dangerous, Quintus, I don't know..." 

"I don't have a choice." John looked Lestrade straight in the eye. His heart beat nervously in his chest, counting away every precious second. 

"Okay, okay," Lestrade gave in eventually. "I can get you some clothes that will do, we've always got some of those, you know, from previous battles and such." 

John just nodded and decided not to think about it too much.

They sprang into action, Lestrade quickly dressed and fetched the clothes. John put them on and was surprised he still knew how the familiar fabric had to fall. 

His hair was too short for a real Gaul and he hadn't got a beard, but he could impossibly force his hair to grow ten inches in five minutes. 

John fetched the sword he used for practise and hid it under his clothes. He also hid a knife in his sleeve, just in case. Lestrade looked him up and down and nodded in silent approval. 

Lestrade commanded his guards to come along, and awoke a few other soldiers. Only the ones he trusted most. John had tried to explain Lestrade wouldn't be able to do anything if he was caught, but Lestrade didn't want to hear any of it.

So it came that John, Lestrade and five other soldiers made their way to the enemy as fast as they could, with the pale light of morning on their backs. 

***

John didn't really know where he had to go.

The few Gauls who were awake, didn't seem to notice John. Or didn't seem to think he was out of place. His disguise worked so far apparently. 

John walked through the camp as if he knew where he was going, but in reality he was observing the tents that were scattered around in a chaotic heap. It didn't look like the strictly organised construction of the Roman army in the slightest. The main tent where Sherlock would talk with the head of the clan had to be bigger than the rest, though, it was the only thing John could use as a guideline.

_Jupiter, don't let it be too late._

He tried to walk calmly, otherwise he would just draw attention. And that was the last he needed now.

He pricked up his ears when occasional passers-by crossed his way. At first, he had some difficulties understanding them, they spoke fast and John hadn't heard the language in many years, let alone used it. But something in his brain suddenly clicked and the knowledge flooded right back to him. 

John picked up the words 'prisoner’, ‘important’, and 'this night'. Prisoner. That was a good sign, right? 

It meant John didn't have to look for the quarters of the leader, but for where they held their prisoners. 

Panic began to rise in John's chest, threatening to choke him. He forced it down firmly, now was not the time. He had to find Sherlock.

But panic bubbled up nonetheless again when John still couldn't find what he was looking for. He strode from one place to the next almost frantically, almost betraying himself. 

He was going to be too late. He felt an ice-cold shiver through his spine. No, he couldn't be too late. He couldn't. 

They'd said there was a prisoner. Sherlock had to be still alive. 

John hang on to that hope as if it was his last purchase, the edge of a cliff above an unrestrained sea. 

And then, when he turned around a corner, he saw the light at the end of the tunnel. There was a tent, bigger than the other tents for the soldiers, with two robust guards on either side of the entrance. The purpose of this tent was crystal clear by the spears in their hands and swords dangling from their hips.

John almost smiled with relief. He seized an abandoned cup that luckily still contained some sort of liquid from the ground, minding the guards didn't look at him while he did so. He walked up to them. They crossed their spears, of course.

"I brought the beverage for the prisoner," John said in his mother tongue. He was immensely grateful he hadn't gotten an accent due to speaking Latin for so many years. The guards watched him closely, John met their gaze steadily. Calmly, though he felt like he was on fire on the inside. Every beating of his heart was too fast, too loud, bumping _Sherlock_ over and over through his veins and brain.

The guards looked at each other for another second, but then, thank the gods, pulled their spears back.

"I really don't understand why they give him our beer," one of the guards said, "Bloody Roman. Must be because he's an important one, he had a pretty armour." The guard grinned. "Too bad they're going to melt it down probably." 

John's heart rate quickened impossibly. He smiled good-naturedly at the guard. "Unbelievable," he muttered and went inside. 

The cup fell on the ground when the canvas closed behind him. John rushed to the hunched figure in the middle of the tent. A sharp pang of anxiety ripped his chest when he saw the cloud of dark hair on the bent head. 

He knelt before the slender figure. Sherlock's hands were tied around a pole behind his back. John could see the knots were way too tight; an unhealthy colour began to spread over slender fingers. John hastily pulled the knife from his sleeve and cut the ropes, careful to not scrape against the tender skin. 

Sherlock fell to the side by the loss of support. John cursed softly and hauled him back up, which resulted in Sherlock falling limply on John. He was clearly unconscious, John swallowed away his panic and told his mind to stay calm. 

He was too long inside already, the guards would become suspicious. With a heavy heart, he peeled Sherlock off of him and let him lean back against the canvas of the tent, pointedly not looking at the bruises on his face. If he looked at them now, he didn't know he could let go of Sherlock again. 

"I'll be back in a minute," he whispered softly to deaf ears.

He made his way back to the door of the tent. He breathed in deeply and prepared himself for what he was about to do. His hand closed itself tightly around his knife.

With deadly precision, John sprang outside and knocked the guards out with two quick, powerful blows against their temples with the butt of his knife. They didn't even have the time to gasp in surprise. 

John quickly looked around if anyone had seen him. He didn't know what he'd have to do with unwelcome witnesses.

He grabbed one of the guards under his armpits and dragged him inside. The broad-shouldered Gaul was heavier than John had anticipated, he nearly dislocated his shoulder. When he'd managed to get the first one inside, he fetched the next one. The muscles in his arms and shoulders burned and sweat trickled down his back. 

There was no time to catch his breath, though, he rapidly went to work. He placed the guards on either side of the pole and bound their hands tightly together between their backs. He used the strongest knot he knew. Next, John ripped long strips from their clothes, he rumpled them and put them in their mouths. Two strips he used to cover their mouths so they couldn't spit the balls of fabric out.

He made sure everything was fastened tightly. 

Then finally, he allowed himself to focus completely on Sherlock. 

Sherlock's chin rested on his chest in a defeated gesture. John gently pulled Sherlock's head up so he could take a look. 

His heart shattered in his chest.

Sherlock’s face was swollen and bruised, there was a big cut on his forehead from which a trail of blood had trickled down along the line of his eyebrow and cheekbone. His eyes were closed, one of them had an unhealthy purple colour and was alarmingly swollen. His mouth was ajar and he had a cut in his lower lip. His hair was a tangled mess, crusted with blood and dirt. 

"What have they done to you, Sherlock," John breathed unbelievingly. His fingers wandered carefully over the twisted lines of Sherlock's face. 

"Oh Jupiter," John swore when he looked down. He cursed himself for being so stupid not to check Sherlock's body completely first.

Because now he saw Sherlock's clothes. They were drenched in blood.

John searched immediately for the source of the blood loss, cold sweat made its way down his brow. His fingers were surprisingly steady while he pushed the fabric away. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw the bandage around Sherlock's stomach. They hadn't want him to die, obviously, but probably hadn't been able to overpower him without causing a lot of damage. 

The bandage was faint red.

"Sherlock," John said, softly tapping Sherlock's cheek. "Sherlock, wake up, I need you to wake up. It's me, John." He shook Sherlock's bony shoulder. 

A soft groan filled the air between them. It was the only encouragement John needed. "Sherlock, open your eyes, look at me." 

Slowly, as if it was the most impossible task in the universe, Sherlock's eyelids slid half open. "John," he sighed, his face grimaced with pain. 

"Yes it's me, I'm going to get you out of here. Everything will be all right. Can you just stand up for me, please? I'm sorry but I can't carry you all the way." 

Sherlock nodded. John swung Sherlock's arm around his shoulders and mumbled an apology when Sherlock hissed. He circled his other arm around the narrow waist of the _legatus_.

"Okay, three, two, one," John counted and stood up slowly. Sherlock clenched his teeth and couldn't restrain a grunt. 

"Can you walk?" John asked. Sherlock just nodded curtly. Sweat plastered his hair to his head and he breathed shallowly. 

He was obviously lying. 

John hadn't got another choice than to go along with the illusion. The first steps to the door were difficult, Sherlock leaned heavily on him and could barely walk. John's shoulders and arms still burned and he felt his neck wouldn't be able to withstand the heavy weight for long.

 _No._ He said to himself sternly. He tightened his grip on Sherlock's waist, gripping him more comfortably. The soft grunts and hisses from Sherlock only boosted John's determination and strength.

And so they went. John listened carefully for approaching Gauls, his eyes scanned every alley between the tents before struggling through them. He took the smallest paths he'd discovered while searching for Sherlock. 

The sun had almost completely appeared above the horizon, but it was still surprisingly calm. 

He heard the sound of hurried footsteps. 

John ducked between two tents as fast as he could, extracting a groan from Sherlock. 

The sound stilled and from out of the shadow, John could see a Gaul looking suspiciously into the little alley. 

John held his breath. Sherlock almost couldn't stand straight anymore, he was sliding from John's grip, his head lolled sideways. 

John didn't dare to move.

Just when the Gaul wanted to enter the alley, another figure passed. 

"Hey, Dunohorix, come on, we have to assemble by the chief's tent," the passer-by yelled, coming to a halt to wait for his friend.

"Yeah, I'm coming. I just... thought I heard something."

The other Gaul laughed shortly. "Probably just a rabbit, come on, we're already late."

With a last suspicious squint into the alley, the first Gaul nodded and joined his friend. They ran off together. John dared to breathe again.

He hauled Sherlock up again.

"Come on, Sherlock, we're almost there. We have to be quick, they're probably assembling to announce they've got a prisoner, it won't be long before they notice you're gone."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He struggled to keep his eyes open, his legs wouldn't cooperate and his breathing was alarmingly irregular. The bandage felt wet under John's hand. The wound must've opened up again. 

"We're almost there," John repeated, not knowing who he was comforting precisely.

***

After what seemed a small infinity, John reached the small side-entrance he'd come in. By now he was carrying Sherlock practically completely. 

He had never been so glad to see Romans. 

Lestrade awaited him from a safe distance, so the Gauls couldn't see him. John struggled through these last metres with his remaining strength.

Lestrade and his soldiers came running up to them as soon as he caught sign of John. 

"Oh Jupiter," Lestrade breathed out. 

John didn't say anything, he lay Sherlock down gently and pushed the two flaps of the ripped fabric from his chest. The left side of the bandage was scarlet. 

"We need to get him back as soon as possible," John said, carefully but efficiently peeling the cloth from Sherlock's body, "He has a wound on his side, probably a cut. They'd already bandaged it because they wanted to interrogate him, but it opened up again when he moved. I'm going to clean it first and make sure it won't worsen till we're back."

Lestrade nodded and watched silently.

John had cleaned enough bad cuts and wounds back at his former master's property. Accidents occurred quickly with the heavy tools they used to farm; he'd become the person whom the other slaves automatically turned to when they'd gotten an injury.

Sherlock's pale belly heaved up and down shallowly while he tried to breathe. His eyes were unfocused and sweat drops dotted his skin. 

The cut bled heavily and John immediately tore large strips from his own clothes. He used one as a cloth to hold pressure on the wound. 

"Does anyone have clean water?" John asked, Lestrade immediately shoved his flask in John's hand. John cleaned the wound as quick as he could and pushed the cloth back against the wound. He bandaged Sherlock again tightly.

"It will need stitches, but I haven't got the right tools here, we need to get back now. This bandage will hold for now."

Together, they hauled Sherlock back up, the other soldiers offered to take Sherlock, but John didn't want to hear any of it. He didn't let go of Sherlock, even though his muscles were screaming by now. He was grateful for the help of another soldier who supported Sherlock on the other side, though. 

"Hang in there, Sherlock, it's going to be all right," John said softly in Sherlock's ear when they took off.

John was determined not to lose Sherlock. 

He would do anything.

***

They could hear there was something wrong in the camp before they'd arrived. 

Lestrade signalled to halt. "Wait here, I'm going to check what's wrong." And with that, he left them. An ominous feeling enveloped them like a blanket.

They lay Sherlock down again and John knelt beside him. The bandage seemed to do its work, the bleeding had stopped. John took the flask of another soldier and began to clean the cut on Sherlock's forehead and wash the dirt away from the rest of his face. 

Sherlock was paler than usual, and he struggled to keep awake.

"Sherlock, don't fall asleep. Look at me, I'm right here," John told him. He kept talking to him so he wouldn't fall asleep. Sherlock desperately held on to John's eyes. John took Sherlock's large, hand in his when his eyes threatened to drift off. He squeezed it gently. "Don't slip off, stay with me, Sherlock."

John secretly dared to hope everything would be all right.

But then Lestrade came back.

"He can't go in again," He said, his eyes were wide with bewilderment and agitation. "A Gaulish messenger reached the camp this night already. They know what he's done, he will get executed if he goes back."

A knot of panic constricted in John's chest. 

"I know a place not too far from here where you can stay with him and look after him. I can sneak off occasionally to provide what you need."

John nodded. They heaved Sherlock up again, and off they went. 

***

Lestrade led them to an abandoned village. It was covered with silence like the mountains were covered with snow, like it never had been and would never be any different.

They picked out a little hut. It contained two small rooms, one with some chairs and a table and in the other stood two beds and a smaller table. 

They lay Sherlock down, he was shivering and little rivers of sweat trickled down his back and forehead. His breathing was irregular and he could barely keep his eyes open. 

When they lay him in the bed, though, he struggled to keep sitting straight. 

"Lie down, it's okay," John said, but Sherlock didn't stop struggling. 

"No," he groaned, "No, it... it's important." His words slurred and lacked their usual energy and detailed enunciation. "Lestrade has to come, too." 

John knew there was no point in trying to change Sherlock's mind. He beckoned Lestrade. 

Sherlock, who's arm was still around John so he could sit up on the bed, grabbed Lestrade's shoulder with his free hand. He clearly had a lot of difficulty to breathe and to form the correct words with his slipping mind.

"You're the witness, so you know he didn't lie when he told you," Sherlock said to Lestrade.

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?" John asked. Lestrade clearly didn't understand the _legatus_ either by the frown on his brow. 

Sherlock ignored John's question and pointed his pale blue eyes at John, forcing them to stay focused.

"Hereby, I, Sherlock-" He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment when a flash of pain stabbed him "-Sherlock Holmes, declare you, John Watson, a free man, a free citizen of Rome."

"John?" Lestrade inquired, confused.

John just stared at Sherlock, his mind was blank. Sherlock stared back at him. 

Sherlock grabbed his side suddenly and made a strangled sound. John's mind sprang back into action, he hastily lowered Sherlock on the bed and began to unwind the bandages. Lestrade had been as clever as to smuggle the required tools to heal Sherlock and a bit of food already.

John took the anaesthetic and needle and thread. He started cleaning the wound before the anaesthetic worked yet, his only chance lay in speed and precision. Sherlock hissed, he tried to stay as still as possible, not letting it show how much pain he was in. He couldn't hold back an occasional grunt, though. John tried to shield himself off, if he didn't do this now, it was going to be a lot worse.

When the anaesthetic kicked in finally, John heard a relieved sigh. Sherlock had closed his eyes and drifted off into oblivion. 

John brushed Sherlock's curls from his sweaty forehead. "It's going to be all right, Sherlock, you're going to be all right. I'm not losing you."

And with that, he went to work.

***

John thought it must have been noon, but he couldn't tell for sure. Heavy clouds obscured the sun, making the day yet darker. 

Lestrade and his soldiers had gone back, the centurion had left John with the promise to come back in two days with more food and supplies. John was secretly glad to be alone with Sherlock, he didn't like everyone watching every movement he made with worried eyes. 

He'd cleaned Sherlock and discarded his ripped clothes. He'd found some abandoned ones in a trunk that was hidden under the bed. They were surprisingly long enough for Sherlock's tall body, they were a bit too broad, tough. He hadn't pulled up the dusty blankets; Sherlock's skin was hot enough as it was. He was burning, though his skin was impossibly pale.

John shoved one of the chairs right up to the bedside. There was nothing for it but to wait. Wait and hope. 

He tore yet another flap of fabric from his clothes, and drenched it in water. He laid it on Sherlock's forehead to counteract the fever. 

John was exhausted. His limbs were heavy and his eyelids threatened to drop close. He didn't allow himself to sleep, though, he had to watch over Sherlock. 

He took Sherlock's hand in his and waited.

***

A layer of dust coated the ground and furniture in the room. John could feel the little dust particles slowly covering them up too, enveloping them in a blanket of forgetfulness. 

The darkness of the sky deepened while dusk passed. 

***

Sherlock had nightmares.

Illusions created by the monster named fever. Sometimes the heath of his body made the sweat well up from every pore of his body, gluing his clothes to his frame, sometimes he shivered like he lay in the snow. He writhed, shuddered and groaned while delusions savaged him. His muscles tensed as he struggled to fight his way out of his torturous sleep.

John could make out his name between the almost-screams. 

"I'm right here, Sherlock. It's okay, I'm not going anywhere. It's just a dream," John told him when he heard his name. Sherlock didn’t hear him of course.

It was the most terrifying night of John's life. He was torn between concern and panic and sadness and a choking fear. And the night seemed to go on endlessly. Stretching out into an impossible infinity.

John refreshed the cloth on Sherlock's forehead. Little, cool drops joined the drops of sweat. He brushed his lips over Sherlock's faintly scarred knuckles, a whisper of a kiss on the hand he held in his. The fingertips of his other hand fondled Sherlock's pale cheek.

Outside, the night had descended with an unbearable sense of foreboding. Sherlock lay completely still, only the slow rise and fall of his chest indicated he was still alive. When he lay like this, floating between nightmares, he was a statue. His pale lips were slightly opened, his eyelashes brushed his marble cheekbones, his skin was too white and his whole being was entirely too calm and quiet. 

John felt hopelessness creeping up on him, seeping into his heart. 

He tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand, assuring himself Sherlock was still here and was breathing.

And because he didn't know anything else to do anymore, he prayed.

"When I look into his eyes, dear gods, I can see all that is beautiful in this world.

"I can see the blue of the clear sky when it's harvest time. I like to imagine us harvesting together." John huffed out a weak laugh at the thought. "I bet he would let me do all the work, but I wouldn't really mind, although my words would tell a different story. I would be content with just his presence while he laughs and teases me.

"I can see the green of the leaves in spring. It reminds me of the day he took me to the woods to learn me how to fight, and how I realised that day, when he was standing like that, looking up at the thick roof of leaves, spots of sunlight dotting his nose, his cheekbones, his lips, his chin, his hair, that he is the most wonderful being in the world.

"I can see the grey that reminds me of storms and unyielding steel. Elegant and dangerous, just like him.

"But above all, I can see him.

"All of him. I can see the power, the strength, I can see his determination, his stubbornness, oh how stubborn he can be, I can see his impatience, his childishness, his irritability. 

"But I can see a glimpse of that great mind, too, every time I look into his eyes. And if that glimpse already threatens to overwhelm me, what would it be like to see it fully? That incredible, never-ending machine of his?" John drew a shuddering breath, his eyes stung and he couldn't swallow as he looked at Sherlock's still figure. The thought of never getting to see that brilliant mind anymore was unbearable.

"And, my love," he continued, addressing Sherlock now instead of the gods, "what I can see in your eyes, too, is your tenderness, your affection, your insecurity. 

"Your humanity. 

"I can see how you love the world, how you love me. And I'm such a bloody fool to only realise how much you mean to me when it's maybe too late. I was just so scared, Sherlock, and I don't even know why anymore." His voice was only a whisper, unsteady by the oncoming tears.

"Oh Jupiter, I could go on for hours. I can see the brightness of life in your eyes, like I thought I would never see, because I didn't even know it existed.

And I know you don't believe in them, but I thank the gods every single day for you. That they brought me to you, that I deserve loving you. And I ask them now, no I _beg_ them to bring you back to me safely. Because I can't imagine how, when that brightness that is life has left your eyes, anything on this world could keep on existing.

"You're everything, you're what makes it special.

"Please, wake up. I lo-" John stopped himself. This wasn't a goodbye. It couldn't be. Sherlock would wake up and then, he could say it when he was sure Sherlock could hear it.

This wasn't the end. Not yet.

***

John stayed awake the whole night. All notion of time had left him. 

His reality shrunk to making Sherlock drink some water in his endless sleep, checking the wound and applying an ointment if it was necessary, wiping the sweat from his face and chest, and holding his hand or touching his face tenderly when Sherlock twisted, shivered and screamed because of imaginary terrors. 

John knew there was little chance for Sherlock to survive. The wound was vicious and if the fever didn't go away soon, all hope would be lost. John wasn't even a real doctor or surgeon. Even though he'd done the best he could, it maybe wasn't good enough. 

It would be all his fault if Sherlock didn't get through this. He would never forgive himself.

"Why did you have to do this, Sherlock?" John whispered, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's.

There came no answer, but John thought he knew it nonetheless.

***

John woke by sunlight tickling his eyelids.

He hadn't intended to fall asleep, but weariness must've overtaken him anyway. His back and neck hurt from the chair and the uncomfortable position. Hunger made him feel weak and dizzy so he ate a bit of dried fruit Lestrade had left. It wasn't nearly enough, but it had to do for the time being, when Sherlock woke up, there had to be enough left for him.

John figured it must've been early afternoon. He did his little routine, making Sherlock drink, checking the wound etcetera. Hope flared in his veins when he saw the wound was healing nicely, no unhealthy red colour rimmed the cut and no swelling had appeared either.

The day wore on without much difference from the previous evening. While Sherlock was still sleeping on the bed, John walked around the room, staying in hearing distance from Sherlock, stretching his sore legs.

When the sun nearly touched the horizon again and John prepared himself for another sleepless night, Sherlock's breathing lost its deep and calm rhythm.

At first, John thought another set of nightmares was going to break through, but then he saw Sherlock's eyelids flutter.

John blinked, maybe it was just a trick of the light or a trick of John's exhausted mind. 

Sherlock's eyes slid open. John's breath caught.

He sat on the edge of the chair, holding Sherlock's hand in his. 

Sherlock was dazed at first, he blinked slowly while looking up at the ceiling, not quite realising where he was or what had happened.

His eyes travelled to John who was watching him closely, an astonished smile appeared on John's lips as he said Sherlock's name.

John could pinpoint the exact moment wherein Sherlock's mind sprang back into action. The memories flooded back to him like a waterfall. 

John didn't entirely understand why Sherlock still stared at him in utter confusion.

"John," Sherlock said, it almost sounded as a question. Relief overwhelmed John, it came thundering over him like an avalanche. With the relief, realisation hit him, realisation that Sherlock would survive. He quickly laid his hand on Sherlock's forehead, indeed his temperature had dropped immensely and his skin seemed less pale than this night. John laughed unbelievingly. 

John kissed him, unable to stop himself. Happiness streamed like a drug in his veins. Maybe he pushed his lips a little too hard on Sherlock's damaged ones and maybe the kiss in itself was a bit too hard and inelegant, but Sherlock melted gratefully into the kiss when the initial shock faded. Soft, cupid bow shaped lips slid easily over slightly rougher ones. A long-fingered hand cupped John's cheek and Sherlock lifted himself up from the bed to deepen the kiss.

He had to break away when his side protested. John panted slightly and he was completely dazed. He saw understanding dawn in Sherlock's eyes and a content smile appeared on his face. John kissed Sherlock's hand in his, repeating Sherlock's name and thanking the gods softly. He couldn't let go of him.

Sherlock didn't seem to mind at all.

And because Sherlock was awake and breathing, and John didn't really control anymore what he did or did not, he said what he'd wanted to say that night.

"I love you, Sherlock. Gods, I love you so much." He pressed another kiss on Sherlock's mouth which was slightly opened in astonishment. 

Then, it turned into a happy smile against John's mouth.


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff to end the story. I hope you enjoyed it, I certainly did while writing it! :)

The grass tickled John's neck, but he couldn't have cared less because his mind was otherwise occupied.

Namely with the delicious mouth of Sherlock.

They were kissing in the grass of the large field behind their house. It was much smaller than Sherlock's immense villa, just big enough for the two of them. It was all they needed.

Only the lack of a city around them was a problem sometimes. They couldn't have stayed in Rome, it was too great a risk for Sherlock.

But Sherlock would be bored to death without the excitement a city brought, he would sulk and complain. And John had to bear the consequences. After a while they'd found the solution; since Mrs Hudson didn't want to leave Sherlock, Sherlock had bought her a house in the little city some miles from their own house. At least twice a week they visited her and Sherlock could solve a crime or collect data for one of his experiments. When they were too wound up in a case to go home, they could stay at Mrs Hudson's. 

But John could often release Sherlock from his boredom. And Sherlock never grew tired of it.

After a while they broke away, and just lay next to each other. Their hands found each other and long fingers entwined with shorter ones.

The stars shone high above them and John couldn't shake the feeling off that they seemed to shine a million times brighter when Sherlock was with him.

"You see those stars, John?" Sherlock pointed with his free hand at seven bright stars right above them. John just nodded. 

"Those stars form the constellation _Ursa Maior_. The Greeks say it was a woman, Callisto, once. Callisto means 'the most beautiful' in Greek. She was a nymph of Diana so she was supposed to be and stay a virgin. But when she was lying in the woods on a hot summer's day, Jupiter let his eye fall on her. Well, you know what happens when Jupiter lets his eye fall on someone." Sherlock looked at John with a grin and a dark sparkle in his eyes. John felt heat rushing downwards, he pressed his lips against Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock smirked and looked back at the sky.

"She turned out to be pregnant, Diana found out, Juno found out and when Juno finds out, it always seems to go wrong. The goddess waited until the little boy, Arcas, was born and turned Callisto into a bear. Her mind was still from a human, though. Fifteen years later, Arcas came across his mother while he was hunting in the woods. Callisto recognised her son, but he only saw a bear and wanted to shoot her. Jupiter saw this, lifted them up and turned them into stars. _Ursa Maior_ and her son _Ursa Minor_. The Roman view on this constellation is different, though, they say the seven stars are seven oxen and it's entangled with another constellation, _Boötes_ , their shepherd."

Sherlock looked back at John. He frowned.

"But you obviously knew that already," Sherlock said.

John smiled and nodded. "Yes, but I love listening when you tell it." Sherlock grinned, he knew John had a huge fascination for his deep voice. "How come you suddenly know something about myths?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I looked it up because I wanted to refresh my memory, maybe it becomes useful some time." But John could tell from the way Sherlock was looking at him that he'd done it for him. Happiness blossomed in his chest. He kissed Sherlock tenderly.

Sherlock kissed back eagerly, opening his mouth under John's touch and John dipped his tongue inside, tasting Sherlock. 

The kiss quickly heated up, John crawled over Sherlock and his hand sneaked under Sherlock's tunic, stroking his side, along the long scar and teasing his nipple. He displaced his mouth to Sherlock's delicious throat, nipping and licking.

"I'm going to tell a lot more myths if I get this reward," Sherlock said, he was slightly breathless already from arousal. A smug grin still played around his lips, though.

John laughed in Sherlock's neck, he felt a hand in his hair and on his arse, pulling him closer. 

John obeyed happily.


End file.
